The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me
by 0Atwood0
Summary: Because the truth of the matter is that he had felt Marissa die. Felt her stop breathing. Felt her heart slow to a sickening stop. Felt her body slacken, and stiffen, and grow cold in his arms as he pressed her against his shaking frame.
1. Sowing Season

_1. Sowing Season_

A/N: This fic is composed of twelve vignettes that chronicle Ryan, post-Marissa, in relation to an album that was recently released, that I feel greatly parallels emotions, situations, and points of view pertaining to a combination of events I would like to see, and ones that we have seen already. I beg for your forgiveness, in that it has been quite a few months since I have written any type of fiction and am most probably a little rusty. Give it a chance, I guarantee you that you will find something in here you can appreciate, if not like.

----

_Time to get the seeds and put them in the cold ground  
It takes a while to grow anything,  
Before its coming to the end yeah.  
Before you put my body in the cold ground,  
Take some time to warm it with your hands  
Before it's coming to an end, yeah._

----

The soft whir of the fans blowing cooled air into Sandy's Mercedes serves as the only conversation on the half hour ride back from the hospital. Ryan shivers involuntarily, pressing himself further against the car door, away from the direction of the vents. Two days. It has been two days already and he was going home. He leans his forehead against the contrastingly warm window, soaked with summer heat, and lets out a shaky breath, dragging his hands across the tops of his thighs.

Slick asphalt rubs up against his damp jeans, digging into his knees, his shins. The scent of burning rubber and metal overwhelm him, dragging him into an abyss of sweltering flames and deep red blood. But he will take it. He will take the broken glass he can still feel lodged in his forehead, even though he knows that the pieces have been removed long ago. He will take the dank smell of motor oil seeping into the tar of the abandoned street he once lay crumpled on. Because he knows that if he starts sensing things around him for real, the vanilla air freshener that Sandy always keeps in his car, the one that bares a striking similarity to the way Marissa had always smelt, would have him throwing himself out the door and onto the expressway.

It takes a full five minutes of Sandy gently calling Ryan's name, hand on his shoulder, concerned eyebrows furrowing together, to coax the blonde out of the car and onto the driveway. Sandy wraps an arm around the tops of Ryan's shoulders, slowly and cautiously leading him towards the backyard. Ryan clutches the bag the hospital has placed his personal belongings in with both hands, tightly pressing it against his chest, and stumbles towards the looming structure that's white stucco exterior clashes with the deep black night sky.

Relinquishing his grip, Sandy watches as Ryan shuffles over towards the bed, gently sitting down on its edge. The plastic bag Ryan has been holding sinks to the floor, finding a comfortable spot between his legs. He fingers a framed picture, illuminated by the soft glow of the pool house lamps, that sits innocently on his night stand. Ryan feels Sandy sink down next to him on the bed, and lets out an inaudible sigh.

"Do you know what happened Ryan?" Sandy questions him softly, knowing he is pressing his luck with the already fragile boy.

Ryan swallows thickly and nods, his eyes never once leaving the picture in which he sees a glint of happiness in himself. One that he fears may have been extinguished forever. His finger unsteadily covers Marissa's face, a small whisper escaping his lips, "She didn't…she didn't make it."

Sandy nods dumbly, even though he knows that Ryan can't see him, and meekly utters a soft "no" in response. Running his fingers through his shaggy black hair, he bites his cheek, and against his better judgment, exits the pool house, leaving Ryan all alone, still sitting with his finger pressed into Marissa's face.

After hearing the pool house door successfully click shut, Ryan drops his eyes and focuses on the bag that sits between his feet. Dejectedly undoing the seal, the smell of smoke floods his nostrils and turns his stomach. Carefully removing a torn and bloodied navy blue sweater that he recognizes all too well, Ryan lays the fabric in his lap, running his fingers across the coarse material, lingering just a slight bit too long over what would've been his left shoulder, had he been wearing it.

He could still feel her now, clenching her fingers tightly around the material of his shirt, balling it into her fist, twisting it with each convulsion of pain. His heart desperately catches in his throat, hardly able to bear the memories that seem to be overloading his brain. Carefully folding the sweater, he places it, along with the oil stained jeans, in the back corner of the bottom dresser drawer, the one that Kirsten had insisted he keep his dress shoes in.

Unsure of what to do with himself, Ryan haplessly wanders into the bathroom, turning the shower head on and making the water as hot as it can go. Standing under the scalding water, Ryan nearly lunges at the soap, greedily lathering his body with it. Trying to scrub away the smoldering ashes that blanket his body. Trying to scrub away the blood that will forever be underneath his fingernails, staining his hands. Trying to scrub away every little scar, every little blemish, every little part of him that is making him uncomfortable in his own skin.

Cocooning himself beneath the covers, Ryan stares blankly at the ceiling, the sickening crunch of metal replaying in his mind over and over again. Marissa's shriek echoing in his ears as they rolled off of the cliff, twisting his insides more than he would ever care to admit.

Ryan rolls over onto his side, tears welling in his eyes as he tries to focus on the empty half of his bed. Inhaling sharply, he can't bring himself to blink away the image of Marissa lying peacefully on the pillow beside him. The tiny pools of sticky red blood are mysteriously gone, the drawn look on her face when he had held her in his arms replaced with a small smile. She looks happy. She is doing things he is having trouble concentrating on; sleeping, breathing.

_Living._

And he desperately tries to feel her silky hair beneath his fingers, her warm skin against his body, but the more urgently he reaches out to her, the further away she seems to get. Because the truth of the matter is that he had felt Marissa die. Felt her stop breathing. Felt her heart slow to a sickening stop. Felt her body slacken, and stiffen, and grow cold in his arms as he pressed her against his shaking frame.

His eyes burn and he berates himself for being delusional. Assures himself that the blood he sees on his hands must be metaphorical. But he's so restless, so distraught, so very sure that if he had just done one tiny thing differently, she would still be here. If he had left a minute later, or a minute earlier. If he had stopped. If he had told her that he loved her.

"I'm sorry." He whispers softly to no one in particular, trying to rapidly blink back even more tears. "I'm so sorry." He manages to choke out, the lump in his throat doubling in size.

He tries to clear his head, to make some sense, but it's so muddled with guilt and regret and defeat that he doesn't even know where to begin. The only thing he can hear echoing in his head making his heart clench so terribly that he's not sure that the feeling will ever go away.

_You killed her. You killed her. It's you're fault she's dead, and Sandy had to go identify her body in the fucking morgue while you sat in the hospital like the useless piece of shit that you are._

Ryan clenches his eyes shut, wrapping his arms around his stomach, and prays. He hopes and he prays that someday, somehow Marissa can forgive him, because he doesn't think he will ever be able to forgive himself.

----

Reviews are greatly appreciated.


	2. Millstone

_2. Millstone_

A/N: Don't own it. If I did, this never would've happened.

----

_Save my life tonight.  
The ship of fools I'm on will sink  
A millstone around my neck  
Be my breath, there's nothing I wouldn't give_

----

Seth gently tugs at the pool house doors, apprehensively opening them for the first time all over again. He swallows thickly, taking a broad step out of the California sunlight and into Ryan's room. Seth squints as his eyes readjust to the darkness; all shades drawn, the only light seeping in from the open door at his side.

"Ryan?" Seth whispers hoarsely, wiping his clammy hands on the black dress pants he is wearing. He receives no answer; the only pervading sound is his heartbeat echoing in his own ears. Glancing around the room, Seth lets out a heavy sigh upon realizing that Ryan has been sitting in the chair not two feet to the left of him for the entire time.

"Ryan, buddy." Seth starts softy, taking in Ryan's disheveled appearance. This invincible, unbreakable boy is huddled on a less than comfortable piece of furniture, knees pressed into his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, hair sticking up every which way. And even though a streak of sunlight has managed to illuminate the deathly pale, lower half of Ryan's face, Seth knows that he is staring vacantly into a corner of the pool house.

Scrubbing his hands across his face, Seth continues. "Mom and Dad sent me in here to make sure you're showered, shaved, dressed, and ready to go in an hour, okay? So come on, let's get you up." Seth puts a hand on Ryan's knee, but much to his dismay he is not even acknowledged.

Ryan knows what day it is. As much as he pretends not to. As much as he tries to forget. He knows what day today is. His head pounds and he feels as if he's either going to explode or collapse into a heap of nothingness. He is awake and asleep all at once. And he tries. He tries to listen to Seth's words so hard. To simply nod and tell him that today is not really going to work for him, and that maybe he'll consider getting up in a couple of years. But Ryan is having enough trouble tuning out Marissa's pleads to stay with him on the side of an oil slicked road. He has no energy left to listen to Seth's static mumblings.

"Ryan, you haven't moved in two days." He hears Seth say. And he wants to shrug, but his shoulders sag, and his frame depends solely on the chair for support. "You haven't slept, you haven't eaten. I know, I know it's tough, but we're going to start slow okay? Let's just get you in the shower." Ryan wants to pat Seth on the back and tell him to go inside, and hit him as hard as he can for thinking that he has any clue about how he's feeling, all at the same time.

"I'm not going to lie to you Ryan, like Mom and Dad want me to." The voice continues, making Ryan crawl in his skin, making him itch to be anywhere and everywhere else. "It's going to be tough. And you're not going to want to see anybody, and you're not going to want anybody to see you." Ryan cringes, and he feels his stomach clench and his body wither at the mere thought of coming face to face with Julie.

"But I think you need to go Ryan. I think…I _know_ she would want you to be there." Ryan inhales sharply, feeling lightheaded, transient, unworthy. "You can leave right after, if you want, and come back here. Summer and I can come with you, if you're feeling up to it." Pangs of shame shoot through Ryan's body as he remembers Summer for the first time in four days. Realizes that she's going to suck it up, because she's strong enough to make it through today. He knows he is not. "You'll regret it if you don't go." Seth whispers, now crouched in front of Ryan.

Ryan's red rimmed eyes forcefully lock on Seth, glaring at him as his parted lips tremble with each hurried and uneven breath. "I am not going to put Marissa into the ground Seth." He spits vehemently, his mind flashing with images of the girl that used to be so optimistic, so full of energy. So alive. His heart tightens as he continues, letting his own words resonate in his mind. "I'm not going to pack her away in a box like she never even existed. I am not going to put her in the ground."

Ryan breathes deeply, as if all the air is being sucked out of his lungs. He watches Seth purse his lips and press his fingers into his temples, and he tries to wish him away. Because he is so very tired of the Cohens telling him what's best.

Maybe it's best you throw those clothes away Ryan. Maybe it's best you get rid of her things Ryan. Maybe it's best you put those pictures away Ryan. It's like they are all trying to erase her from their memories. He can't understand it. He can't understand how putting a picture in a drawer can ever possibly expunge her from his mind.

He can't forget. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to forget how she smiled at him, how many freckles she had dappled across the bridge of her nose, how her eyes lit up whenever they were together.

A small voice snaps him out of his thoughts and back into reality. "I'll…I'll tell Mom and Dad." Ryan sighs weakly and shuts his eyes. He knows that Seth is waiting for a response, but he's been sucked back into a pocket of time, sucked back into his refurbished Jeep; to the side of the road, where he can feel the heat from the fire pressing into his back; where he can feel sticky, dark red blood matting her soft, honey blonde hair.

But in this moment it doesn't matter. Because he can remember exactly what it feels like when her chest rises and falls, inhales and exhales, and this is all that is important to him. He doesn't want to think about Julie having to bury her daughter, Kaitlin burying her sister, Summer burying her best friend, because as far as he is concerned, he is not burying anyone. He is not hiding anyone in his drawers.

Ryan hears the pool house door click shut, sees the light drain out of his room, feels the heat drain out of his body. He knows Seth has left. He knows no one will bother him.

He knows he is alone.

----

R/R.


	3. Jesus Christ

_3. Jesus Christ_

A/N: Have I mentioned how much I hate Chismukkah? And Fox. And where have everyone elses storylines gone? Why is the Ryan/Taylor show being aired on my tv at 9 on Thursday nights? Can someone please make this all go away?

----

_Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face,__  
__The kind you'd find on someone I could save__  
__If they don't put me away,__  
__Well, it'll be a miracle..._

_...Well Jesus Christ, I'm alone again..._

_...Well Jesus Christ, I'm not scared to die,__  
__I'm a little bit scared of what comes after._

_----_

Ryan takes in a shaky breath, placing his hand on the glimmering doorknob. Gripping it almost too tightly in his palm, he hesitates, half expecting the room to be locked. But when he hears the successful click and nudges the oaken door from its frame, he is unable to stop himself from crossing the threshold.

The room is filled. Filled with useless artifacts, meaningless pictures. And yet, it is still vapid. Kaitlin's unmoved possessions occupy space. They are cluttered. They are unwanted. They are non-existant.

Ryan's head spins as he shuffles his feat further into the room, stopping at the edge of the bed, running his fingers along the silky satin material of the light purple comforter. He knows that this place has not been altered. Even though these are his first steps out of the pool house, he knows that Kaitlin has not been in here for a week. He knows that the door has not been opened. He knows that he is the first.

Ryan silently places toe to heel and slips off one of his already untied boots. He does the same for the other, removing his arms from his jacket, folding it neatly and placing it on the floor next to the shoes. His fingers graze the hem of the comforter, tentatively undoing the pristinely made bed.

He pulls himself under the covers, his heart wrenching as he buries his head into a pillow. Ryan lays on his side and presses the other pillow into his face; inhaling deeply, slowly, as he takes in the dizzying smell of vanilla, and lavender shampoo.

And he can remember her. He can remember exactly what it feels like to wake up next to her in the morning. He can remember exactly what it feels like when she kisses him. He can remember exactly what it feels like to be in love. But he's not sure if he wants these things anymore. He's not sure if he would've rather never experienced them, because not knowing what he has lost is a hell of a lot better than painfully, irrefutably missing it every day.

Ryan presses the pillow harder into his face, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to pretend. Trying to pretend that everything is okay. That Marissa is okay. That he is okay. But it's not so easy for him to let go. He finds it ironic, that people let go of him so easily, but he hangs onto them for dear life. He knows it must be him. It must be his fault. But she didn't care about that. She had promised that she would not leave him, so it seems absurd for him to do quite the opposite.

When Julie walks down the hallway and notices the open door to her daughter's room, her stomach drops into the volatile abyss that has been slowly consuming her for the past week. Her feet cautiously pad across the wood flooring, making their way towards the center of the room, where what she sees makes her eyes sting and her heart lodge itself in her throat.

Slowly, painfully, she edges herself under the covers, placing one hand under her heavy head. Her lips tremble slightly as the boy in front of her pokes his head out just far enough over the top of the pillow so that she can see his unruly blonde hair and his red rimmed, bloodshot eyes.

Julie reaches out, tenderly but confidently, surprising even herself, and strokes Ryan's hair in a motherly way. Which she supposes is rather ironic, because she is somewhat less of a mother lately. She watches as he tucks his chin over the top of the pillow, still clutching it tightly to his chest.

She watches as he bites his bottom lip to keep it from quivering, and seeing him like this is enough for the steady stream of tears down her cheeks to begin again. In this moment, simply connecting with him, Julie realizes how young Ryan actually is. How afraid and hurt and lonely he is. How he is just a scared little boy, who must feel so utterly hopeless because he is tucking himself in her dead daughter's bed because the sheets still smell like her.

He inhales shakily, and his voice cracks terribly as he so desperately tries to tell her. "I'm—I'm sorry…" He manages, ducking his head.

Struck with the enormity of his words, Julie ceases to breathe for a moment, but does not hesitate to continue stroking his hair. She realizes that he feels guilty. That he blames himself. That he is not just apologizing because Marissa is gone, but because he thinks that it is his fault. "Don't." She whispers. "Just…don't. It's not…you. Not your fault."

Ryan's heart clenches at her words, and he finds himself wishing so desperately that he could believe them. Julie was the first on his list. The _first_, that he thought would recognize his sins. Blame him for what had happened. Confirm what he had been too ashamed and terrified to admit all along. That he was the reason her daughter was dead.

But still, she gently strokes his hair, and watches him gaze at her with eyes filled with as much pain and guilt and regret as her own. And she whispers, "I'm glad you were with her…I'm glad she wasn't alone."

Ryan's breath is caught in his throat, and he is not quite sure what to say. His deep blue eyes begin to burn terribly and he can feel her twisting his shirt in her palm, hear her begging for him to stay, feel her grow limp in his arms. His stomach aches and he feels nauseous, light headed, responsible.

Unable to manage much more, he simply nods his head; eyes averting Julie's tear streaked face. Sighing softly, Ryan relinquishes his grip on the pillow clutched to his chest and offers it to Julie. She gratefully accepts, replacing the hand tucked under her head with it. She pretends not to notice. They both pretend not to know, just how damp the pillowcase pressed against her face already was before she had even received it.

----

Reviews are nice.


	4. Degausser

_4. Degausser_

A/N: I don't even know anymore. Really. I just want to go back to season one or something. Something happy like that.

---

_Well take me, take me back to your bed,  
I love you so much that it hurts my head.  
Say I don't mind you under my skin,  
I'll let the bad parts in, the bad parts in._

_  
When we were made we were set apart.  
Life is a test and I get bad marks.  
Now some saint got the job of writing down my sins.  
The storm is coming, the storm is coming in._

---

Summer's trembling fingers grasp tightly around the handle of the pool house door, whipping it open so roughly that the glass rattles in its frame. She storms in, livid, determined, unaware. She wastes no time in doing what she deems justified. Locking her eyes on the nearly lifeless blonde, in all aspects except which he wishes to be, she feels the rage bubble inside of her and glares at him in disgust.

"Get up." She snarls at him, commanding him, as she tears the rumpled comforter off of his body. He has not acknowledged her. Hasn't even looked at her. Does not know she exists. "Cut this crap out Ryan, it's fucking pathetic." She continues, her eyes darkening as she stands at the foot of his bed, sheets clenched in her tiny hands.

"Who do you think you are?" She asks incredulously, daring him to answer. "Who do you think—you think you can pull this shit? Not get out of bed for two weeks, not eat." She is right. He can't tell her otherwise, but what does it matter. He knows she is not really here to concern herself with his recent behavior. No, he knows what she is here for. He is ready for it.

"You think you're so god damn special, huh Ryan? Think you can act like you're the only one who lost her?" Somehow she has moved over to the side of the bed, looming over his defeated figure with a determination that he has never seen in her before. He wants to curl up in a ball, wants to close his eyes and pretend that she's not standing over him. He wants to feel the tiniest bit of happiness. He wants to feel relief. He wants to feel Marissa wrapped in his arms, pressed snugly against his body, easing each of his breaths with her own.

"Everyone else lost her too Ryan." She shoves his shoulder, hard, and he barely has the energy to roll over onto his back, let alone refute what she is saying. "The Cohens lost her. Seth lost her. Julie lost her. _I_ lost her, Ryan." Summer is fuming, but all that Ryan can think about is how she is telling him that Marissa is lost. It's not like she's been misplaced. It's not as if she's a spare set of keys tossed in some dark drawer, or loose change stuck between the couch cushions. Ryan knows exactly where she is, and he finds it strange that Summer, apparently, does not.

"You didn't even _know_ her for that long Ryan." She hisses, clenching her hands together. "You didn't know anything about her. Not like _I_ did." Her bottom lip trembles and she inhales deeply, trying to keep her composure. "You didn't know her when she was little and wore her hair in pigtails. And you didn't know her when we used to watch _The Little Mermaid_ together, and build sandcastles on the beach."

Her voice cracks, and Ryan doesn't need to look at her to know that streams of saline tears are ruining her mascara and dripping down her cheeks. His stomach twists as he envisions Marissa as a little girl; happy, carefree, innocent. He knows what he has taken away. Her dreams, her desires, her future.

_Her life._

"It's all you fault." She chokes out through strangled sobs, and although the words hit him like a fist in the gut, he is relieved. He is relieved that someone realizes what he has known all along. Someone else has acknowledged what has been tearing him into pieces for the past two weeks and three days.

"You left her. You _left_ her when she really needed you Ryan. You sent her right into Volchok's arms when you ran off with that skank. You never looked back. You never even _cared_." Ryan's throat closes up as he listens to her yell at him, too distraught to wipe away the tears flowing down her cheeks. He can't breathe. He can't think. All he can hear coming out of Summer's mouth are the words _You killed her. Youkilledheryoukilledheryoukilledher._ And he feels nauseous, like he's going to throw up on the floor if she doesn't move out of his way.

"You left her all alone Ryan. After what happened. _You _brought him here. You left him alone with her. You should have known better Ryan. _He was your brother._" Ryan's stomach drops. He is completely numb. He is paralyzed. He knows what she is getting at."He was your brother and it was _your_ fault. You should have stopped him. You should have stopped him Ryan. It was _your fault_."

Ryan snaps. He brakes, into little tiny pieces. And he can't take it any more. Can't take the pounding in his head, and the lack of pounding in his chest, and the absence of oxygen flowing through his lungs. And Summer. _Screaming._ Wailing out his mistakes to the world. Accusing him, like he has not already condemned himself.

He bolts straight out of bed, grabbing Summer's arms, and she is silent, her chocolate eyes gazing up at him in fear and disbelief. She finally looks at him for the first time since she has walked in. He is unkempt, sallow, exhausted.

She squirms in his grip as he breathes deeply, squinting his bloodshot eyes at her. "Don't you think I know." He hisses maliciously, the bile rising to the back of his throat. "Don't you think I know that it's my fault?" Ryan explodes in a desperately, overwrought, booming voice that causes Summer to flinch in his grip.

"You don't think I know that I was too selfish, too self centered, to realize that she really needed me?" He spat, disgusted with himself. "That I was too concerned about not getting hurt again to stop her from getting involved with that piece of shit? You don't think I _know_?" He demands, glaring at Summer, but feeling angrier and angrier at himself with each word that spills out of his mouth.

"You don't think I spent _every day, KNOWING_ that I was too much of a fucking _coward_ to be there for her. You don't think I spend _every day_ regretting bringing him here? You don't think I know it's my fault? _You don't think I know?_" Breathing deeply through his nose, Ryan feels the tears well in his eyes, feels the lump form in his throat.

He can't sense the floor beneath his feet. And as he looks at Summer cowering in his grip, tears flowing out of her wide and frightened and sad eyes, he feels terribly sick. He drops his hands limply to his side, and bites the inside of his cheek to keep the tears from desperately spilling out. He wants to disappear. He wants to pretend that none of this ever happened. But he knows that when he opens his eyes that are squeezed so tightly shut, Summer will still be here. He will still be here.

But Marissa won't.

---

Reviews are seriously appreciated


	5. Limousine

_5. Limousine_

A/N: Is it really a surprise that The O.C. is cancelled? I miss Ryan and Marissa. This chapter could really be crap, I'm not sure.

----

_So breathe. Yeah, you were right about me.  
Can I get myself out from underneath  
This guilt that will crush me.  
And in the choir, I saw our sad messiah.  
He was bored and tired of my laments,  
Said I'd die for you one time but never again._

_Well I love you so much,  
But do me a favor baby don't reply.  
'Cause I can dish it out,  
But I can't take it._

----

Ryan is tired. He is tired of bagels, and stepping on eggshells, and knee pats, and meaningful talks. But most of all he is tired of Cohens. He is tired of their constant suffocation and meddling and two sense and how they're always hovering over him, making him feel like he can't breathe or move or do anything without being scrutinized and analyzed and taken aside to talk about his feelings. Because apparently that is something he "_really needs to work on"_.

So when he makes his way to the pool house, all Ryan wants is to hide under his covers, away from the world, and writhe in his own guilt like he's been doing for the past two months. But when he walks through the entrance to his haven, he is met with a sight he is not quite prepared for.

His heart drops into his stomach and suddenly there's such a large lump in his throat, as he watches Kirsten hunch over a cardboard box and remove various items from his drawers. He swallows thickly, clenching his fists together and demands, "What are you doing?"

Kirsten is caught off guard, immediately recoiling at his words. She clutches her hands to her chest, mouth agape, suddenly at a loss for words. She was hoping to get this done while he was out of the pool house, but it seemed that it was proving more difficult than she had anticipated.

"What—what are you doing?" He splutters out, baffled, enraged, as he makes his way towards her, kneeling down in front of the box she was packing. When he sees what's inside, Ryan's heart clenches and he swears that he's stopped breathing. Tentatively, he reaches out, almost afraid to touch the objects inside. On the bottom of the box lay a toothbrush, countless hair ties, a bathing suit, a t-shirt, a Harbor sweatshirt. Marissa's things. Innumerable pictures that Kirsten was packing away in a meaningless box. Things, no doubt, she would dispose of.

Disbelief written all over his face, Ryan stared at Kirsten incredulously, fresh tears stinging the backs of his eyes as he realizes that she is holding the hospital bag full of his clothes from the accident. Rage bubbles inside of him as he watches her cast her gaze downward.

"I'm sorry Ryan," She whispers softly, refusing to make eye contact with the emotionally destroyed boy in front of her, Unwilling to look into his dulled ocean eyes and see the immeasurable amounts of pain that she has no doubt just added to his already aching heart. "I was just trying—"

"Well STOP." He explodes, snapping at her vehemently, clenching his fists around the maroon sweatshirt that has been so delicately placed in the box. "Just STOP trying. Stop trying to talk. Stop trying to help. I don't want your help. Just stop." Ryan breathes heavily, his chest burning with rage, filling him, lulling his body into the comforts of the familiar.

Immediately, he begins scooping as many of Marissa's things out of the box as he can, choosing to ignore a withering and anguished Kirsten, who has somehow released the bag she has been holding, wringing her hands together desperately. "This, keeping her things Ryan, it's not…it's not healthy." She whispers so softly he barely even hears her.

Ryan pauses; dozens of pictures in his hands, all of Marissa's things scattered around him on the floor, and snaps his gaze up, staring at her menacingly.

"This is not okay sweetie, you need to get rid of them. You need to put them away so you can try and move on." Kirsten whispers again, and as she places her hand lightly on his shoulder, she feels as if she's almost gotten through to him. He's still crouched on the floor, sweatshirt clutched tightly within his hands, but he hasn't taken anything _out_ of the box, and Kirsten can almost swear that is most defenately a good sign.

In one swift movement, Ryan dumps the items he's holding back into the voluminous prism, and shrugs Kirsten's hand off of his shoulder, leaving her cold and rejected, shrinking away from him. He scrambles to pick up all the objects on the floor around him, replacing them in the box, and gripping the stiff cardboard in his hands.

Rising to his feet, he tucks the package beneath his arm and stares down and Kirsten, who is still in a heap on the floor. "Don't _EVER_ touch my things." He hisses, tossing the container onto the bed, rummaging through his dresser, pulling out a duffel bag and stuffing it with as many shirts and pants as he can possibly squeeze into it.

"I'm not letting you do this Ryan." Kirsten stated firmly, poised stoically, an air of determination and authority about her. She inhales shakily, and almost winces when Ryan's callous, deprecating laugh reaches her ears.

"You know what Kirsten?" He turns around to face her, forcefully shoving clothes into his bag, a demeaning glare contorting his face. "I don't really think you have a say in it." He utters condescendingly.

Taken aback by his words, Kirsten fumbles over he own thoughts for a minute before responding forcefully. "I'm your mother Ryan, and I'm not letting you do this, I'm not letting you leave again. I'm not—"

"I'm not sure that's the case Kirsten." Ryan articulates sarcastically, demeaning her every word. "See, you let me into this house remember? You made it pretty clear that I could let myself out whenever I wanted. So that's exactly what I'm doing."

Without even giving her a chance to respond, Ryan slings his duffel bag over his shoulder, grabs the cardboard box from off of his bed, and storms out of the pool house, leaving a baffled and distraught Kirsten behind.

He walks down the Cohen's driveway, down their street, out of their gated community. He's not sure where he's going, but he knows that when he gets there he can lay in a bed, on a couch, on the floor. And he can hide in a place so very far away from the world, drowning him his mind, his guilt, his Marissa.

---

Reviews? Okay cool.


	6. You Won't Know

_6. You Won't Know_

A/N: So you all know what desperation is? Good. Keep that in mind. PS. I sort of like Kaitlin. In small doses anyway. Oh yes, and the word around town is that the boards are closing, so I'll inform you that this story is posted over on and will hopefully soon be posted on a lj community, that is if Charlynn helps me out a little bit.

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_So play little player, you gotta contend.__  
__And you can't blame your mother,__  
__She's trying not to say I was the worst mistake.__  
__And I wish that I could tell you right now, that I love you.__  
__But it looks like I won't be around,__  
__So you won't know._

----

Ryan's clammy fingers stick lightly to the dusty box of beer bottles that he is carrying out of the storage room. He makes his way back behind the bar as the California sunshine pokes its way through windows streaked with weeks of dirt, and into the dingy establishment he now calls home. Catching a glimpse of someone familiar snake into the shadows, he callously scrubs his hand over his face, choosing to ignore both the freshly mottled bruises, and the stubble that seems to reappear just as soon as he shaves it off.

He can feel his body scream in protest, even with simple movements, so dragging a grimy rag across the bar raises pangs of pain all across his upper body. Keeping his eyes glued to the deep mahogany of the countertop, he doesn't have to look up to know that a familiar face has sat down on the barstool directly across from him.

"Whiskey." She demands, rapping her newly manicured nails across the less than pristine surface separating the two familiar strangers. "On the rocks." She huffs out, glaring at him impatiently, almost accompanied with and glint of fear and defiance. "Please." The curt word is added as almost an afterthought.

Ryan shakes his head in annoyance, tossing the rag somewhere out of sight. "Yeah." he replies caustically, moving towards another customer, "You and me both." His words are biting, intolerant, but she can sense a hint of honesty.

She feigns interest, disgustedly glancing around. "I'm glad to see you've done so much with your life Ryan." She says sweetly, an implied undertone scathing him in ways he has almost forgotten about, but not quite.

"Kind of a return to form?" She prods him, a sickly sweet smile forming across her face as she tries to get a rise out of him. Trying to get him to notice her, respond to her, acknowledge her existence. Something she has been without for more than a few months.

He sighs tiredly, sliding a beer to a burly man, who greedily hunches over it like it is his salvation. Ryan had a salvation once. "Don't you have school or something?" He hisses deprecatingly, squinting at her in distaste.

She sighs in mock annoyance, flippantly brushing off his comment and quipping with her own quick wit. "I'm sure no one is going to miss me there. Not like anyone notices I'm gone anyway." Her words take on a darker connotation at her last statement, and Ryan can't help but wonder what she's been going through lately.

"Anyway." She plasters on a fake, cheery smile that can be deemed nothing less than Newport-esque. "I saw your little performance last night." She proclaims, and she can tell she's hit a nerve by the way his back tenses up. "_Very_ entertaining." She continues an assault that she knows will get her nowhere, but she doesn't have very much experience with these kinds of things, and this is all that she is familiar with.

She watches as Ryan hoists a crate of glasses from a bottom cabinet towards a ledge flush against the wall she is facing. "I didn't know you had it in you to not even throw a punch. Impressive." She taunts him, but her enjoyment is slowly being sucked away as she finally chances to look at how withdrawn and feeble he appears. "Not like you ever won a fight in Newport anyway." She grumbles, crossing her arms across her chest.

She jumps as Ryan slams the crate full of glassware onto the countertop, exhaling loudly as he turns around to face her. "What do you want Kaitlin?" His eyes desperate, pleading for her to stop.

Inhaling shakily, she whispers softly, and maybe for the first time, earnestly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just--." She laughs cynically, trying to regain some composure, regain some ground. She locks her eyes with his determinedly, "Listen, I--can we talk?" She tries meekly, stumbling over her own words. "It's just…my mom's been in a Valium induced haze since May, and Summer left for Brown last week, and I just feel really…alone." She finishes softly.

Kaitlin's eyes are glued to the countertop and she forcefully wraps her arms around her torso. She scoffs and mumbles when she can hear no response, almost berating herself, "God, not like any of this matters to you anyway." Abruptly lifting herself off of the barstool, she continues. "Sorry. This was…stupid."

"Wait." He hears his own voice strangle out of his throat, unsure why, but desperately in need of stopping her. He watches as she pauses, a hopeful look lingering on her face. "Come on." He murmurs, motioning for her to follow him towards the back of the bar.

Kaitlin glances around the closet he has just shown her into. A closet with a bed. And all of Ryan's other things. Sitting down on the edge of the bare mattress, she lets her eyes wander over her dingy surroundings, feeling sorry for him in more than one way. "Nice place you've got here." She tries, hinting a sense of sarcasm biting through her own words.

He glares at her, softly shutting the door behind him, before moving to sit next to her, lying down across the width of the bed so that his feet are still touching the floor. He watches as she follows suit and can't help but notice that her toes barely reach the floor. He glances over his shoulder at her and timidly whispers. "What do you want to talk about?"

Very aware that she is treading on delicate territory, she laces her fingers together, letting them rest across her stomach and questions him apprehensively. "Well, do you think you could tell me about my sister?"

Her voice is hinted with innocence and loneliness and naivety, but as soon as the words register in his brain, he is tripped backwards into a whirlpool of memories that he has tried so hard to push deep down inside of him. "No." He blurts out, his entire body tensing up. "No, I-- It's too soon. I'm not-- Not now." He finishes desperately. He hasn't allowed himself to miss Marissa. Hasn't allowed himself to think or speak or breathe or survive inside of himself.

"Okay. It's okay." Kaitlin cuts in hurriedly, not wanting to force him into saying anymore. "You don't have to." She sighs weakly, unsure of what to do next, unsure of herself. "Well," She attempts, a small smile making its way across her lips. "I'm not exactly going to catch you up on Newport gossip, if that's what you're waiting for." And she swears she can almost see a small smirk twitch across his lips.

They sit in silence for a few moments more, both unsure what to do with themselves. "Diane Cohn got new chin implants?" Kaitlin offers up, trying to make him smile a little bit again, something she figures he hasn't done in a long time. She realizes that he probably doesn't want her here. He has enough to deal with, he doesn't need her here as a constant reminder of her sister. "My family's falling apart." She whispers, furiously wiping at tears that have not yet fallen. "I haven't even heard from my dad since…since May." She concludes weakly, fumbling over her words, trying not to upset him.

Ryan exhales loudly, his eyes glued to the musty ceiling, forever stained with brown spots of water damage. "My dad didn't like us very much." He feels Kaitlin's eyes upon him and wonders if anyone has asked her if she misses her sister. "He used to hit me. And my brother. And my mom." He mumbles out choppily, not exactly sure why he's telling her this. "I was young. I didn't-- I thought all families were just, like that." She nods, and that's all. No pitying looks, no glares of disgust. And he is grateful. So very grateful that he doesn't have to deal with anything other than what is already eating him from the inside out.

Another few moments of silence linger over them before Kaitlin gathers up enough courage to speak. "Ryan?" She questions softly, not even daring to look him in the eye. "Do you think that, someday--I mean, when you're ready, that you could tell me about Marissa?"

Ryan feels like he has another person sitting on top of him. The lump in his throat has doubled in size at her supplicate request, and he's finding it increasingly harder to swallow. Shifting his feet slightly, Ryan's heel taps against the cardboard box underneath his bed and pangs of guilt and regret and loss shoot through him again at the thought of Marissa. He desperately rubs his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, pushing the wetness and saline into his skin as hard as he can. "Everything." He promises forcefully, squeezing his relentlessly burning eyes shut. "Everything."

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Reviewing is not overrated in the least bit. I appreciate all.


	7. Welcome to Bangkok

_7. Welcome to Bangkok_

_----_

A/N: Sorry this took so long, this chapter really kicked my ass. I had to rewrite it 3 times before I was semi-satisfied with it.

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_Space cadet..._

_ ...pull out_

----

The unusually cold California weather slowly works its way from the tips of Ryan's reddened fingers, creeping into his chest, sinking deep into his bones. It makes him wish that he had bought more than a forty. Ryan's head lolls against the rigid plywood pressing into his back, his feet stretching far out in front of him. A small lopsided smile makes its way across his face as Marissa runs her fingers through his hair, his eyes closed in contentment.

"A little for me…" Ryan mumbles softly, tipping the glass bottle deftly stuck between his fingers upwards and swallowing enough to warm his body up just a bit. "A little for you…" He tips the bottle on its side, letting what's left form a small puddle on the rickety wood flooring.

Tracing his fingers through the clear liquid, he feels her rest her head upon his shoulder and he can't ever remember a time when he was so happy. The rhythmic crashing of the waves overtakes him, and he wants to hold her hand, but he can't seem to find it. "Lemme get the car an' we can go mkay?" He manages, struggling to get to his feet. His head spinning, Ryan grips the wood railing tightly for support, stumbling his way down the ramp before he trips over his own two feet and lands face first in the sand.

"Come on Ryan, let's go." He hears a familiar voice, and he is not quite sure, but he's fairly certain that Sandy has somehow magically appeared and is lifting him up off of the ground.

"Sandy?" Ryan queries rather loudly, wonderment clear in his otherwise troubling appearance. "How'd you get here?" Ryan can feel himself being dusted off and sees a shock of black hair bobbing around in what appears to be a desperate search of the car keys that Sandy pulls out of his jacket pocket.

"Wait, I need those." Ryan protests, confused, before he is cut off by a clearly frazzled and worry laden Sandy.

"It's four in the morning Ryan, let's just go home okay." Sandy sighs heavily, trying to lead Ryan's very inhibited form away from the ocean and towards the beach parking lot.

"Tha's what I was tryin'a do." Ryan assures the older man, straining towards the opposite direction that he is being lead. "Wait, I need'a…" He breaks free of Sandy's grasp, stumbling back towards the abandoned lifeguard stand. "Can we give Marissa a ride?" Ryan asks earnestly, as he feels a strong arm wrap itself around his shoulders.

Ryan resists, his brow furrows in confusion and he locks his glassy eyes with Sandy's bloodshot ones. "Wait but, we can't leave her." Ryan begins to make his way back to the shack he's so familiar with, but visibly pauses and turns to face Sandy, questioning incredulously. "Where'd she go? Where—where is she?"

Sandy bites the inside of his cheek and squeezes his eyes shut. "Why don't…why don't we just go home and I'll tell you in the morning." He offers up weakly. Quietly informing Ryan night after night what has happened to the girl that they had all loved so much was beginning to take its toll in more ways than one.

"No. No." Ryan shakes his head vehemently, clumsily making his way up the ramp. "Wha'd you do to her?" He demands, pacing over the spot where he had been previously sitting, an aching fear making its presence known in the pit of his stomach. "Wha'd you do to her?"

"I…I didn't do anything to her." A more than slightly baffled Sandy responds, watching the boy in front of him search desperately inside and all around the deck of the lifeguard stand. He runs a hand through his shaggy black hair and shivers involuntarily. It was barely breaking sixty during the December days, and the setting of the sun coupled with the wind had brought temperatures down at least another ten degrees.

"What did _I_ do to her?" Ryan questions worriedly, his eyes roving the beach, blackened by the night sky.

"What?" Sandy manages breathlessly, the question hitting him like a fist in the gut.

"Well there's jus'…only me an' you. Where…" Ryan mumbles incoherently, scratching his head, glancing suspiciously around him. "What did I do to her?" He whispers.

Sandy's feet seem to be cemented into the ground because he cant seem to put one foot in front of the other to make his way towards the distressed blonde no more than ten feet away. "You didn't do anything to her Ryan." He utters, unsure of where the words even came from.

"What did I do to her?" He questions; frustrated, upset with himself. "What did I do to her? What did I do? What did I do? What did I do?" He reiterates again and again and again.

Sandy's stomach drops when he realizes that the tone of Ryan's question has changed completely. His confusion and concerned questioning has turned into moans and wails, repeating to himself over and over. And Sandy knows that Ryan is no longer trying to figure out where Marissa has gone. He is condemning himself for her death.

Before he even knows what is happening, Sandy is trying to wrap his arms around Ryan's broken frame, but he is unsuccessful. Ryan struggles and shouts 'no's and 'stop its' and writhes away from Sandy's grip, lodging himself between the plywood shack and the whitewashed railing.

His shouts turn into whimpers, which turn into cries, that turn into body wracking sobs. Ryan tucks his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around his legs, wishes that the world would disappear.

Sandy Cohen wishes that he knew what to do.

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So like, I know that no one is on here anymore, but I still love reviews.


	8. Not the Sun

_8. Not the Sun_

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A/N: Taylor is a tool.

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_Outside your cold lips again,_

_You've set on me but you are not the sun._

_You are not the sun._

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Ryan's favorite part of the day is the evening, and the quiet it brings with it. He is not sure why getting lost in his own thoughts has been so appealing lately; in fact, a month ago he would have thought just the opposite. But he's been living in a hazy reality, in a world where no one knows him, a world in which he can imagine and pretend and forget and lock himself so far away that even _he_ sometimes looses sight of the past.

Ryan never closes his eyes when he lies down. He makes it a point to keep them for the longest amount of time possible. He focuses on something trivial, insignificant, distracting; like the broken spring that is jamming its way into his back through the battered mattress.

He concentrates on breathing in and out, tries to stop his stomach from climbing its way back up his throat, turns his thoughts away from anything but breathing and eyes open and keeping the measly cracker and a half that he had managed to eat for dinner down.

Perfection. Ryan has perfected disappearing. Disappearing from the world, disappearing from his family, disappearing from reality. And for a minute, he is almost able to forget the overwhelming guilt that is swallowing him whole every day, little by little. Almost able to forget about the knots his stomach ties itself into every time another young, blonde girl waits to be served at the bar.

He is so close.

But there's a rapping, softly at first, but growing increasingly louder. Knuckles rapping on the wooden door that separates the blonde from the rest of the world. And Ryan's breath hitches, his eyes shut for a moment; he is sucked back into his own, self-created abyss of deterioration.

Ryan believes, if only for a second, that if he remains perfectly still, perfectly quiet, that the person will go away, move on, think that he is somewhere else. But his hopes are shattered as soon as he hears the soft 'Ryan?' seep through the only barrier.

Opening the door just enough to poke his head through, Ryan receives a weak smile from Seth, who gestures to a full bag of groceries, comics and all tucked in. "Mom just wanted me to drop this off…" Seth trails off, his brow furrowing at his brother's appearance. His hair has grown longer, unruly; and the bags under Ryan's eyes make it seem like he hasn't slept in months. And Seth _swears_ that this Ryan looks at least ten years older than the Ryan he last saw. This Ryan, with the scruffy beard and the worn t-shirt and the dirty jeans, staring at him with empty and dulled eyes; this is not the Ryan he remembers.

Begrudgingly, Ryan lets Seth inside, watches from afar as he sets the food down on a small table near the wall, but he can't help but look the man his brother has become up and down; noticing the slacks, the dress shirt, the tie.

Seth manages a wavering smile and explains, "I'm taking Summer out for Valentine's Day." He expects at least a nod of acknowledgement from the other boy, but is greeted with only silence and blank stares. "You could come if you want." Seth presses, squinting his eyes, watching Ryan back himself into the wall. "I'm sure Summer would be glad to see you."

Ryan's stomach lurches, and even though Seth can't see what's going on inside of Ryan, he damn sure knows that what he's saying is going to get a reaction. "No." Ryan whispers raspily, hoping that Seth will just accept his answer and be on his way. No such luck.

"Oh, come on. It's been so long since we've all spent some time together." Seth tries, desperate to break through to the boy who used to play video games with him, who smiled on occasion, who overanalyzed and was way too protective.

"I said I don't want to." Ryan barks out harshly, trying to ignore the connotations 'all' brings with it. He wraps his arms around his torso and stands just defensively enough that Seth will get the message that it's time to leave.

Seth shakes his head slightly, upset, disappointed. He sighs loudly, "It's been a long time Ryan." And Seth can almost feel the animosity Ryan is glaring at him with seep into his bones. "You really…you need to get out of here."

Ryan watches Seth make his way towards the door, and before he even knows what's happening, his mouth snaps open. "What do you know." He snarls at the man in front of him, causing Seth to stop dead in his tracks, turn and face him.

Seth glares at him. "I know you've locked yourself away in here Ryan." He declares forcefully. "I know you won't come out. Won't talk to anybody. Wont talk to your _family_." Seth's voice gets louder and angrier, months of frustration bubbling to the surface.

Ryan clenches his fists, his body stiffening with every word that pours out of Seth's mouth. "Shut up." He grumbles, just loud enough for him to hear.

"It's like you live in some other universe Ryan and you just can't do that anymore." Seth waves his hands exasperatedly.

"Shut up Seth." Ryan warns, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"I know it's hard Ryan but she's dead okay? Marissa is dead. And yeah, you were driving Ryan, but it's not your fault." Seth continues forcefully, unwilling to stop his tirade.

Ryan's stomach twists and turns and his own demands get louder. "Shut. Up."

"You got rammed off the road. You helped her out of an exploding vehicle okay? Why can you not understand this?"

In one swift motion, Ryan pins Seth up against the door, hands grasping tightly at the pale blue collar of his shirt. Breathing hard, Ryan makes sure he speaks slowly enough so that Seth can understand him. "Shut up Seth. I killed her. _I killed her_." He hisses at the brunette. "What don't you understand? Huh?" He questions forcefully, the rage and guilt in his eyes clouding over with something indescribable.

Seth lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head again. "I don't want anything to do with you when you're like this."

"Good." Ryan shoves him hard, releasing him from his grasp. "Don't come back."

"Wasn't planning on it." Seth's words bite back at Ryan as he slams the door shut on his way out.

Furious and guilt stricken and hopeless Ryan turns and whips his arm out, swatting the bag of groceries onto the floor. He kicks it, boxes of cereal and comics fly everywhere, but he is not done. He is not satisfied. Ripping the dusty cardboard box out from under his bed, he turns it upside down, dumping its contents everywhere.

In a frenzy, Ryan kicks at pictures still fluttering towards the ground, throwing them into the air, flinging picture frames into walls. And as he hears the glass shatters the metal crunch of his car echoes in his ears, and he hunches over on his knees, hands desperately gripping the floor; he tries to keep his eyes open, tries to keep his breathing steady, tries to keep from throwing up all over the cool concrete slab just below him.

He can't make it go away.

---

Is this craptastic show over yet?


	9. Luca

_9. Luca_

A/N: An Update? Shocker. This is probably a little meh.

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_...Son, the last thing you'll realize you  
__need is what you've already got... _

So touch me or don't  
But just let me know  
Where you've been

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Sunlight dapples gently through the wispy branches of a forlorn oak tree, mercilessly providing relief from the sweltering heat that's pressing its way into every inch of Ryan's body. He scuffs his shoe on the patch of grass beneath his feet and wonders how everything can be in technicolor in a place like this; for he is sure what he is standing on is the greenest grass he has ever seen, the sky bluer than he has noticed in a long time. He can smell the familiar beginnings of summer, and all it serves to do is make him sick to his stomach.

Ryan stares at the small landmark in front of him and for once, as hard as he tries, for once he is no longer angry. He's tired, so very tired of putting every single ounce of his being into hating Volchok and Seth and Summer and the Cohens and himself. And he finds it so strange that all he can do is feel devastatingly sad.

Stepping forward tentatively, he sinks to his knees and digs his fingers under the vibrant green staring him in the face and into the dank soil, his knuckles rubbing mercilessly against the gray stone in front of him. One hand buried in the earth, the other in his pocket, he fingers a small, folded square of paper. Gently placing it in the makeshift hole, he can almost read the _Dear Mr. Ryan Atwood_, can almost make out the _congratulations, you've been accepted_ through the barely there sketch of a tiny ferris wheel.

He presses his hand against the soil, trying to put everything back into place. And he thinks it's ironic because repatching a piece of grass doesn't seem to rid his mind of the fact that he's in a cemetery. He can feel the engraved letters outlining themselves on his forehead as he rests his head against the cool stone.

And Ryan thinks it's funny, because he's so close, but so far. He thinks about her smile and her laugh and the way her eyes always used to light up. And he thinks about how her voice sounded and how she used to pout her lips and how she loved him. And he thinks about how he lost her three hundred and sixty five days ago and how it was his fault and how he really has no desire to be here anymore. But he doesn't think dying will solve anything. Ryan's never been a religious man, but it's not like he would be going to the same place she was in anyway.

"I didn't…I didn't think I'd see you here…"

Ryan hears the familiar tones float around his ears and knows he should've expected it. He lifts himself slowly from the ground and backpedals until he is standing next to her. Wrapping his arms around his torso, he exhales softly, refocusing his eyes on the ground beneath his feet.

He's skinnier than she remembers. That's the first thing Julie notices about him. His jeans seem too loose and his jacket looks like its swallowing him up, like its three sizes too big. And she wonders what he looked like when he was a little boy, if he tried on his father's shirts like Marissa used to parade around in her high heeled shoes. His face is drawn and his hair is shaggily unkempt and reminds her of when she had first met him.

"How's…everyone?" He questions lamely, surprising even himself with the raspy voice that has somehow emanated from his throat.

"Okay I guess." She speaks softly, her eyes focusing on the boy she hasn't seen for nearly a year. "Seth and Summer are back from Rhode Island if you're interested, you know…"

Ryan gives a weak shrug, never lifting his eyes from his shoes. "What about you?" He murmurs, still finding it unbelievable that they are having a conversation, that she has managed to accept him, in her own way. "Do you still…" He trails off, wondering if this girl has been as much a part of Julie's thoughts as she has of his.

"All the time." She whispers forcefully. "All the time. God it's just…I don't even know anymore you know? It's like, none of this has been real. Like it's some sick dream that I keep half expecting to wake up from. And then just, I'll come here or someone will say something and it's like…it's like I find out she's dead all over again."

Julie wipes furiously at the tears spilling from her eyes, trying to regain at least a little bit of her composure. She watches as Ryan closes his eyes and he just looks so defeated and worn and inherently sad. "How have you been doing?" She questions gently, turning to face him.

He exhales shakily, not knowing quite how to answer her. He could tell her so many things, so many things about the bar and the fights and how he never sleeps and how he tortures himself and how he cant remember the last time he's actually had something relatively decent to eat. But he decides on something else, something she will understand. "I miss her." He utters weakly, feeling his body drain as he says the words.

Julie's breath catches in her throat and she's not quite sure what to say to him, but if she has learned anything it's that the two of them are remarkably similar. "Oh honey…" She whispers, gently brushing her fingers through his shaggy hair.

And just like that, just like that he's back three and a half years ago frantically hunching over her limp body in the middle of a Mexican alleyway whispering desperate pleas for her to open her eyes; _Hey, honey…come on. Come on wake up…_ And he can see himself carrying her towards Seth and Summer, away from dripping oil and metal and fire. And he can feel her there in his arms and he wants her to start breathing again because watching her motionless body is making him sick.

And all that he wants to think about is the girl he used to know, the girl with an amazing smile and a heart bigger than one he could ever hope to have and the willingness to love him even when he knew he deserved no such thing. And he wants to be mad at the world, at the Cohens, at himself. But all he can manage to do is squeeze the hand that is gripping his own and walk through the world in the haze of a life that is no longer worth living.

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Eh, review it.


	10. Untitled

_10. Untitled_

A/N: I post? Strange. My apologies for the wait, things have been hectic.

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_I can never love you,  
I can never reach you._

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Ryan's body sags against the mattress in a torturous kind of way. His tie slung over his shoulder and his hands folded over his stomach, he finds it slightly unsettling that he has been able to fall into a holding pattern. To stumble, if not limp, through the motions. The balmy August air floats gently in through the open window, bringing with it sounds of music and laughter and gossip. And Ryan finds himself wishing that he could press his back into the sun-soaked sand and quietly observe the night sky like he used to when he was seventeen and things were relatively okay.

He hears the door click open softly and doesn't have to glance twice at the petite, ring adorned hand to know who it is. She sets her flute of champagne down on the corner of the dresser and he lets out a soft sigh. "Nice party you've got here." It comes out lonelier, more exhausted than he had imagined it would.

"Yeah well my dad was supposed to be hosting some hospital benefit thing, but you know no one needs a reason for a party in this town." A small smile tugs at her lips as she continues softly, "Besides, if these women don't get together at least once a month to dish on the latest affair or divorce or surgery the apocalypse will definitely make its way to Newport."

"You mean there's something worse than these excruciatingly long parties?" A wry smile spreads across his lips as she lets out a soft chuckle, cautiously making her way over towards the bed.

"A joke," She muses, "I didn't know you could still make those." Summer regrets the words as soon as they make it past her lips. His sharp intake of breath makes her uneasy and an awkward silence envelops them.

She runs her fingers lightly across the bedding, a meek whisper escaping her lips. "Would it be okay for me to lie down?"

"It's your house isn't it?" He fiddles with the buttons on his dress shirt before lacing his fingers tightly together in an attempt to stop fidgeting.

Resting her head gently on the pillow next to his, she blankly stares at the vapid ceiling over her head. "I'm sorry." She starts suddenly. "The last time…when we saw each other, I said things that—that you didn't deserve. You didn't deserve to be blamed or—or punished or yelled at." She wipes furiously at the tears spilling gently down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

Every ounce of Ryan's being is aching to correct her. He is so desperate to tell her that she was right a year ago when she stormed into his room and yelled at him. Because his guilt has been ripping at him for so long and he doesn't think that he has anything left to give.

He shrugs, and Summer doesn't expect anything less of him. She knows that he's not okay, even though he's fallen into this routine of convincing everyone otherwise. She wants him to talk to her. And even though she knows that's a ridiculous stretch, she sees less and less of the Ryan she used to know every day.

"What difference does it make?" He strangles out, fiddling with his buttons again. "We both know…"

_We both know you were right._

He doesn't have to finish his sentence but they both know what he means. And for the first time, Summer thinks that maybe just _telling_ Ryan she didn't mean what she had said wouldn't make him believe it any less. She wonders how long those seeds of self-loathing and doubt and guilt had been planted there already before she had even spoken to him.

"You know, she used to hate coming to these parties." She smiles softly and closes her eyes. "She used to try and get out of them all the time, pretending she was sick or that she had an important project to do." Summer glances to her left, notices Ryan desperately try to wipe the painstakingly sad look off his face; his deep blue eyes glazed over, his teeth sunk deep into his lower lip.

"Luke," She chuckled to herself, "Luke was always trying to get her to make out with him, but she always ended up off in some corner all by herself. It was like she was trapped all alone in this world of…_ideals_ that she had begun to hate."

"But then one day," Summer takes in a shaky breath. "One day, this boy—a new boy—started to come to all of these ridiculous parties." A strangled whimper echoes in his throat, causing her to turn her head and notice the arm Ryan has slung over his eyes.

"And all of a sudden, she couldn't wait for Julie to tell her that they were going to another gala or benefit or party. And she didn't mind the people and the conversation so much anymore. And she started smiling again Ryan." Her voice cracks and this time she doesn't even bother to wipe away the fresh tear tracks.

"She was happy again. And whether or not you want to believe it, you did that Ryan. _You_. Not anybody else. She loved _you_."

"I don't know why." He chokes out, the tears and unreleased sobs evident in his voice. His lips tremble and the unwavering guilt and loneliness and sadness protrude through his vulnerable, boyish voice. "I just made everything worse and all I wanted was for her to be happy and look what I did. Look what I did Summer. Look…"

A stifled sob escapes his lips and Summer clutches his hand in her own. "I know you miss her." She whispers. "I miss her. And I'm not asking you to stop acting the way that you are, or be any less sad. But you need to know, _I_ need you to know, that she loved you. No matter what okay? Even if you think that there was no reason for her to, she did."

Ryan swallows thickly, at length. "I didn't tell her enough." His voice cracks, but Summer would have to be deaf not to hear the regret that envelops the statement. "Do you think…?"

"She knows you love her Ryan." She whispers forcefully, "I promise that she knows."

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Reviews? Yes that sounds lovely.


	11. Archers' Bows Have Broken

_11. Archers' Bows Have Broken_

A/N: This is disgustingly long overdue. I really do apologise for this. Only one more chapter left. I promise I'll update soon.

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_Burning out my center until there's nothing but dust.  
Holding me with care into your cigarette,  
'Cause the god I believe in worked on a campaign trail._

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Ryan stands at the foot of his old bed in his old room with his old memories and his old possessions. That's the only word Ryan can come up with. _Old_. He is not sure what else he can call a year and a half gap in his life. And he stands there and it all seems so unfamiliar at first. The windows and the kitchen and the clothes and the four solid walls that held so much more than all of the things that he could carry around in a duffel bag.

And he stands there and he feels like fucking lead because he's so, so tired. But mostly because he's standing in his old room with his old memories and they're pounding into him one after another. And he wonders if this is what it feels like to be hit by a sledgehammer or a slab of concrete or a car.

His eyes dart across the room and he is sure he is going crazy. Not the stressed or anxious or upset kind of crazy, but the kind of crazy where medication needs to be administered and his arms and legs need to be strapped to a bed. Because he can feel his brain shifting inside of his head, the pieces rearranging themselves in new positions. And it's so unsettling that he crawls in his own skin and his body involuntarily heaves.

Ryan isn't sure just when or how he has moved over towards his nightstand, but somehow he is there and he is staring so very intently at a picture of himself and Marissa that he thought had been thrown away. He squints and stares at it hard enough so that he can feel his head throbbing and searing and burning, and from the corner of his eye he can see the room disintegrating. It's falling apart into little tiny fragmented squares that are slowly working their way in from the edges until the blurry shapes and colors all turn to black and disappear.

When he opens his eyes the first thing that Ryan sees is a hovering Kirsten. She is not touching him, not violating, just hovering. He gathers that he is sprawled out on the floor and he realizes that he has no idea how long he has been there for. Ryan sits stiffly on the bed next to Kirsten, unfazed, and without even realizing it, continues staring intently at the photograph.

He's not sure when it happened, but all the self-loathing and disgust and guilt Ryan felt had transformed from the desire to collapse and recoil and hide and forget, to the desire to suffer, to feel and tear and hurt and remember every single little detail of every memory that was embedded in his mind. Because he could, _should_, suffer as much as she had.

Ryan spends every waking second pushing images and smells and feelings that he had buried away, to the front of his mind. And he can almost perfectly recall the sound of her laugh or how she looked when she smiled, really truly smiled. And he can just barely hold onto the feeling of her body pressed into his, under the covers that are on his old bed in his old room.

He supposes that's why he has decided to accept the Cohens' most recent offer to return to their house. Because all he has to do is step into the pool house and he will suffer and feel and tear and hurt, and he wants nothing more. Not a thing.

"It's a new year." He hears Kirsten speak softly, unsure of herself, but full of a persevering type of hope that Ryan can't help but think is being wasted on him.

"Is it?" He questions vaguely, unable to clear the fog his head is swimming through. He taps his fingers on the tops of his thighs, slowly, methodically, counting out each one, and he realizes that if it were not for the Christmas decorations still hanging around the house, he would have no idea what time of year it vaguely was. The seasons bring barely any deviation in the weather, none that Ryan can discern anyway. And he can remember a time when he used to count each day, but now they all seem to blur together into a hazy reality where he can't distinguish hours, let alone months.

Ryan runs a hand through his unkempt hair and glances down at his dirt streaked t-shirt and thinks for a moment that maybe he should change. But all he can hear in his head is _MarissaMarissaMarissa_ and she is all that matters and he didn't think it was possible, but it is more satisfying than crippling blows to his body. He has found a way to hurt himself without hurting himself, and he clings to his merciful salvation like it is all that he has left in the world.

Kirsten touches him on the shoulder and he flinches, so she pulls away. Ryan watches her leave and his head feels so heavy and he thinks he wants to scream and he contemplates sticking a finger down his throat to quell the rolling nausea, like he's been doing for the past few months. But instead, he slips off his boots and buries himself under the covers of his old bed in his old room with his old memories that are tucked carefully between the sheets.

Ryan sinks further and further into the mattress and wonders if they have eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets in heaven. And even though it's not the kind of thing he likes to think about, he hopes that maybe Marissa has some to sleep on because she had always thought they were comfortable and he made it a point to make sure that they were always on his bed.

And he hopes that maybe she is happy because he thinks that she deserves it and that he can be sad enough for the both of them, even if it means suffering and feeling and tearing and hurting.

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Shaabang. I promise, soon. Reviews would be beastly.


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